all or nothing

a place for recreational madness and the necessary Caniac moments...

Tuesday, August 08, 2006


On Wednesday, October 4th, 2006, my life shall begin again. When the puck drops that night at the RBC Center, the Caniac nation will rejoice, and begin the long, tiring quest for the Stanley Cup all over again, starting with the Buffalo Sabres. How will one know if they have caught the disease of redneck hockey? Your hands will sweat, your heart will pound, your stomach will churn, and when Brind'Amour, Staal, or Williams slams a shot to the back of the net, you'll experience a high better than any pharmaceutical or herbal remedy. You'll immediately spot the tucked-in number 17 jersey of the captain, you'll search for braces of any kind in a state of panic. As the game plays on, your temper may get the best of you, and you will drink a few beers to calm yourself. In your pleasantly buzzed state, the trash talk comes out. Lucky for me, I manage to trash talk in either drunk or sober states. After the game, you'll do one of two things- if we win, you'll go party at a sports bar, getting drunk til the barkeep kicks you out; if we lose, you'll go mope at a sports bar, getting drunk til the barkeep kicks you out. Ah, for the love of the game...

"Hockey players have fire in their hearts and ice in their veins." (Author Unknown)

Monday, August 07, 2006


I myself have an odd relationship with my family. When my mother, Liz, and father, Raymond, married in Effingham, SC, in the early 80s, it was my mother's first marriage and my father's fourth. When their unhappy union dissolved in 1991, my sister, Rachel, and I (ages 3 and 1 respectively) went and lived with Mama. She worked 3 jobs to keep a roof over our heads, and my dad had a business to run, so Rachel basically raised me. When my dad announced he was seeing Kelly, the world momentarily stopped. Kelly was an old college friend of my mother's, and had even been present at my birth. Needless to say, Mama was pissed. Rachel and I moved in with Dad and Kelly when I was four. Mom had just met Stuart, her future husband. The first time I met him, little ole' me got a jelly eyeball stuck on the ceiling in his new house. Stuart had two daughters from a previous marriage, Marisa and Meredith, who lived with their mom, Paula, for the most part. Did we get along immediately? Kinda. We didn't kill each other. It was just awkward. As time passed, Mama and Stuart started a business, which evolved into three medical clinics in the Southeast. This meant they were always busy, and never home. It marked the beginning of their flashy new lives, which didn't necessarily have room for 4 little kids.

As time passed, marriages occurred- Dad and Kelly married in 1998, and Mama and Stuart had a surprise wedding after Meredith's bat mitzvah in 2003. Marisa graduated from East Chapel Hill High and moved up to Delaware (or Delapuke as I lovingly call it) to attend the university there. Rachel flourished at Riverside High, only making one C in her high school career and still managing to be considered cool. Meredith shed her baby fat, braces, headgear, and glasses and became a gorgeous, if not slightly waifish, little hippie. And I floundered. I wasn't smart like Rachel, beautiful like Marisa, or transformed like Mere. My parents didn't stick up for me. They didn't even care when a teacher at my middle school copped a feel in the middle of second period. When they got called to the school by the principal, my mom said I must have "provoked" him. And I lost it. I delved into drugs. I became a self mutilator. I contemplated suicide. And no one even noticed. Not a parent, not a sibling. Only until a best friend and the best teacher/mentor/replacement father anyone could have knocked some sense into me did I realize how stupid I was. So I cleaned myself up. I left the Durham Public School systems to try my hand at the Chapel Hill way of life. I moved in with my mom. This arrangement didn't last long, as she moved down to Charlotte to nurse my stepfather, who had suffered a cardiac event, back to health. Instead of moving back to Durham, I hired a nanny, Lisa. She let me have free reign, and I slowly slipped again- I had money, I had means, and I had opportunity, and I partied every night. As my sophomore year began, Rachel moved to Columbia, SC, to attend USC. I decided to reach out to my dad since he was left with Kelly, who had developed a lovely little taste for perscription medication and hypochondria. And that's when I found out wake-up calls aren't so nice sometimes.

My dad had just picked me up for dinner, and we were pulling out of my driveway onto the main road. Within 45 seconds, I found myself being thrown through the windshield, with my torso splayed across the hood of the Suburban. The ride to Duke, well, I don't remember it. I do remember the hot cop that tried to talk as they wheeled me into the ER. I passed out while he was telling me my mom was unreachable at the time. I woke up again in my room, with Lisa, my dad (who had only sustained some minor cuts), and Tony, my parent's Raleigh office manager, in my room. I had torn the muscle in my right knee, compacted three vertebrae, tore muscles in my neck, and nearly broke my jaw. I looked mighty fine in my knee immobilizer and various braces, and the swollen face definitely helped the hotness factor. My dad wished me well, and went back to Durham. Tony and Lisa took me back to my house, and called my mother. She flew out to Las Vegas the next day.

When I finished healing for the most part, I moved back in with my dad. I got a warm welcome at Riverside, and thrived in the chorus program, and took up two new sports: lacrosse and field hockey. To this day, no one in my family has ever seen me play. I left my mom to her booze, Kelly to her drugs, Dad to his misery, and Stuart to his insanity. Have I looked back? Can't say I have.

"The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief." (William Shakespeare, Othello)

Sunday, August 06, 2006

first post

I guess the first post is the "awkward turtle" of the blog, eh? I wouldn't really know, as this is my first blog in general. I'm quite technologically impaired- I don't have a MySpace, I don't have a Facebook, and whenever it's created, I won't have a YourFace. I do believe blogging is as good as I'll get, folks. Maybe I'll get someone to upload pictures for me from time to time...

So what does one write as a first post? I guess an introduction of me would suffice. If you do not know me, it truly sucks to be you. Smartass comments aside, my name's Callalily. For the average 30 year old (preferably Canadian- I've got a wee bit of a soft spot for Canucks)- I'm physically young enough to be your daughter, mentally old enough to be your genius twin, and emotionally old enough to be your mom, unless your mom is like my own and never got past the promiscuous and quite irresponsible part of puberty. I'm a Southern debutaunte, and I'm not joking, unfortunately. My odd speech comes from being around an eclectic group of people from the early years. If you think reading this is odd, try hearing me say it- as my friend Aisha puts it, I sound like a "mix of a drunk Irish man with Southern vowels, who randomly says Canadian phrases." Well, I guess shit happens, eh? I'm bilingual in the fact I speak English and fluent profanity. I'm known for being decievingly sweet when necessary and being your worst nightmare when provoked. The greatest loves of my life are the Carolina Hurricanes hockey team, Panic! at the Disco, big sunglasses, lacrosse, and good beer (by good, I mean Yuengling, Newcastle, Guinness- not that PBR, frat boy shit. Sorry, Meeks.) I believe everyone should be in a fist fight at least once in their life, and that trying to become popular is possibly the worst goal anyone could ever try to achieve. I'm pro-choice, and a believer in gay rights. Although I am Jewish, I am pro-tattoo- I don't think the God I believe in will damn me to Hell by marking my body with meaningful art.

Some questions that have been wandering in my mind:
:: Is it possible to be a success without living up to ALL of your expectations?
:: Why do people think it's possible to fight for peace? Isn't that like fucking for abstinence, or bingeing for sobriety?

A final word:

"Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems depopulated." ~Lamartine